What this night wants is what it gets,
|
strung in silken knots,
|
lit by cigarettes flaring side by side,
|
with the streets all wet,
|
as the only thing that's bright.
|
And I don't need to cross that bridge.
|
I find I'm swinging
|
or sailing over the pit tonight.
|
I'm hanging from a hit
|
tonight was wild enough
|
to order up and across my lips.
|
What's making all my tears is taking
|
all my fears away. But I don't need to cry,
|
because now I'm clear.
|
A moth that's swerving through the sage.
|
A creature crashing from a cage.
|
A shadow vaporized by a new sun ray.
|
A day she spends the night, and I can hear her sighing
|
as she's almost asleep on one side,
|
and I lie back on my pillow and ask what her husband is like.
|
|
And she says, I smile polite,
|
and I tip and tithe,
|
and I see the sights with a well-trained eye.
|
But I softly sigh,
|
because I'm too much mine without him.
|
And I lie, reclined where the room is quiet,
|
and it's quiet at night.
|
The soft silk is fine
|
and the waves are white,
|
but the wind has died without him.
|
And I scream my smiles,
|
and I want my wires and I need my stripes.
|
And I read the lines until I lid my eyes,
|
and I'm losing time without him.
|
And I ignite inside
|
and I flash with fire
|
and I limp from life
|
and I'm blazin blind
|
and I'm surging live
|
and I give up my mind
|
when with him.
|
And then every dream inside turns to flames,
|
fades to grey, and is dying. And the smoke rises
|
into a white, blank, bare, broke-open sky.
|
|
-----------------
|
Hanging From A Hit
|
| Okkervil River |
